


Slide

by leigh57



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh57/pseuds/leigh57





	Slide

Even though it was pushing 3 a.m., the bar was still packed. In a corner booth, Olivia sat pressed unnaturally close to Elliot on her left side, which bothered her less than it probably should have, and some rookie from homicide on her right, which bothered her more with each passing second. A bizarre combination of rap and country blasted from the speaker directly over her head, and she closed her eyes briefly, wondering exactly where on the 1-10 pain scale the headache she was currently developing would register by morning.

 

She wasn’t drunk. If only. She was simply bored, exhausted, and regretting her choice to eat an entire plateful of chicken wings with ranch dressing, only to chase it with both a Sam Adams and a shot of Cuervo Gold.

 

She didn’t want to be there anyway, spending this rare Saturday night off in a dive sports bar with a bunch of people she barely knew. What she wanted was to be at home, sitting on her couch, wearing sweats, sipping a cup of decaf and listening to Dave Brubeck, possibly while reading another chapter of the John Le Carré novel she was halfway through. But one of the guys Elliot had gone to the academy with had just gotten promoted, and Elliot, still not quite sure what to do with his newly-divorced status, had asked her to come with him to celebrate. Clearly not as his date. Just as. . . well. Shit. She didn’t know. _Think about something else. Like the fact that if you don’t get out of here within the next five minutes, you’re probably going to vomit all over the table._

 

She took a long swallow of Diet Coke and tried not to notice the warmth of Elliot’s thigh against hers. Leaning her head closer to his so that her voice would carry over the relentless buzz of music and multiple conversations, she said, “I feel like crap. I’m gonna grab a cab and head home. I’ll see you Monday.”

 

He looked at her for the first time in at least ten minutes, and the smile that lingered on his face from some comment Munch had made vanished immediately. “You okay?”

 

She nodded tiredly and rummaged in her purse for a twenty, throwing it on the table amid the wadded up napkins and empty beer bottles. “Too many chicken wings. I just need to go to sleep.” Elliot said something to Munch that she couldn’t hear, and then both men pushed out of the booth, allowing her to slide out behind them. She yanked her coat off the rack.

 

Elliot reached for his, too. “I’ll come with you.”

 

“Elliot. . . “

 

“I’m coming. I’m done here anyway. Got everything?”

 

She sighed. Under normal circumstances she would have argued with him, but between the set of his jaw and the instability of her stomach, she chose to give in. This once.

 

Munch reseated himself in the booth and nodded at her. “Feel better, Liv. The paperwork on the Messner case has to be in by noon Monday.” He shot her an evil grin.

 

“Better get going on that then,” she retorted, sounding bitchier than she meant to.

 

He snorted. “Already did my part. But I’ll make you coffee.”

 

“There’s a reason to show up early.”

 

“Hey Stabler!” Mitch Carson, a relative newbie from Narcotics, yelled across several booths. “Got a question for you before you leave.” Another stab of pain shot through Olivia’s temple. She was relatively certain that within the past two hours, Carson had personally polished off at least a pitcher of beer on his own. Probably more.

 

Elliot tensed before turning toward the voice. “What’s that?” His tone was unnaturally level, and Olivia bit the inside of her lip to keep her mouth from twitching. The last thing Elliot wanted at the moment was to chat with this drunken loser.

 

Carson grinned, leaning against the deep green vinyl backing of the booth. “We’re tryin’ to settle a dispute over here. Some new guy over in vice just got assigned this partner who looks like she used to model for _Playboy_.”

 

Olivia’s stomach gave another sickening lurch, and she watched Elliot’s shoulders stiffen even more under the blue cotton fabric of his shirt. She knew what was coming – knew it with a certainty that she couldn’t even begin to explain. The same way she knew just from the way Cragen’s office door opened that her boss was about to rip her a new one. Elliot’s voice was even lower this time as he spit out, “And?”

 

“And we’re all taking a poll guessing how long it takes him to nail her. So since you’ve had a lady partner for what, eight years or somethin’ now, we wondered when you started puttin’ it to her.”

 

And there it was. Olivia swallowed, thankful that Elliot kept staring at Carson and didn’t shoot a glance in her direction. She was actually surprised when Elliot only spoke and didn’t make a move for the guy.

 

“Carson. You’re a dickhead. Why don’t you order yourself a fucking cup of coffee and go home? A few of us actually manage to work with a woman without the thought of ‘nailing’ her ever entering our minds.” His jaw worked at an odd angle, and Olivia glanced at his hands, noticing that they were both balled so tightly that his knuckles had turned pure white.

 

Carson leered at Elliot, then lifted his glass and took another long swallow of beer. “Get your own coffee Stabler, and leave me the fuck alone. And if you expect me to believe that you stand next to that package all day without wanting to peel off the wrapping, you’re even more full of shit than I thought.”

 

Elliot stepped forward so quickly that if Olivia hadn’t been prepared for it, her hand wouldn’t have made it to his arm in time. But her fingers closed over the cotton of his shirt, pressing into his wrist. Turning her head, she said, “Carson, go fuck yourself, since I’m sure no one else will do it for you. Elliot, let’s _go_.” He breathed in so hard that she could hear it, then silently turned to follow her out of the bar.

 

The cold outdoor air washed over Olivia as she opened the door, and although her insides were now rolling around for reasons unrelated to chicken wings, tequila, or crappy beer, she found herself grateful for the cold, because at least the nausea was gone. Elliot came to a stop beside her, gazing down the street for a cab. And right then, just like the sound of a balloon popping even when you weren’t aware there was a balloon in the room, Olivia felt the tenuous camaraderie that she and Elliot had been rebuilding explode with a crack that, to her, was practically audible.

 

Without looking at her, Elliot hailed the cab driving toward them, and when it pulled to the curb, he said, “You go ahead. I’m gonna walk it off for a second.” She was in the cab with the door shut behind her before she had time to argue, and as the cab pulled into the street, it occurred to her that he hadn’t once met her eyes since the exchange in the bar. _Shit_. Shit. Shit. Shit.

 

________________

 

For the next five days at the precinct, Olivia routinely fought the desire to walk into the ladies’ room and bang her head against the ice-cold tile wall. Most of the changes were intangible, leaving her feeling foolish, oversensitive, and irritable for even noticing them. Elliot still occasionally brought her tea and a muffin, but now he placed them on her desk without comment. No, “They didn’t have pumpkin so I had to get cinnamon chip. Those aren’t the ones you hate, are they?” Just the soft thud of the cardboard cup and the sugar-laden pastry hitting her desk. Then he’d walk away.

 

Had she not known the exact explanation for his behavior, she would have wondered if she had suddenly forgotten her deodorant or chosen an ineffective brand of toothpaste, because basically, Elliot now stayed at least five feet away from her at all times. Even in the interrogation room he’d find excuses to leave her alone. Bogus shit about how this guy would be intimidated by being alone with a woman, blah blah blah.

 

She didn’t call him on it, not because she didn’t want to, but because she didn’t know what she would say if they ever started having this particular conversation. How exactly would that work? “Um, Elliot? Were you serious when you said that you’ve never thought about having sex with me? Ever?” Yeah. Smooth. Because clearly he’d evade the question and turn it back on her, at which point she’d have the equally unattractive options of lying outright or opening Pandora’s box.

 

Back to denial.

 

Well, it was working well enough.

 

Late at night, when she was finally curled between her flannel sheets with covers piled over her, and the room flickered with changing lights because of horrible late night TV on mute, she tried to figure out why the situation bothered her so much. She wasn’t going to sleep with Elliot. So why did she care if he didn’t want to sleep with her?

 

________________

On Friday night at 9:30, Elliot and Olivia had already been sitting across from an apparently abandoned warehouse for almost four hours. In that time, they had spoken exactly twice.

 

Elliot: “You want some gum?”

Olivia: “No thanks. Orange and mint do _not_ go together.”

 

And then, maybe an hour and a half later. . .

Olivia: “Will you turn up the heat? It’s fucking cold in here.”

Elliot: “Sure. You should have said something.”

Olivia: “I just did.”

Elliot: “Okay.” And he turned up the heat.

 

After another silent hour, Olivia stared out the partially fogged window, watching an empty plastic bag swirl in random patterns as the wind caught it and then dropped it again.

 

 _Fuck it_. “Would it be at all possible for us to stop doing this now?” She sunk her fingers into the sleeve of her coat while she waited for him to respond.

 

“Doing what?” He tried to sound innocent, but as he spoke, he made full eye contact with her for the first time since the scene in the bar, and she knew that he was full of shit.

 

“Cut the crap.” She reached for her lukewarm tea and took a swallow, mostly to have something to do. It had too much of that fake creamer stuff in it anyway. She needed real milk.

 

“I don’t wanna talk about this, Liv. Carson’s a first class prick. The entire department ignores everything he says. We should do the same.”

 

She couldn’t let it go. “So you’ve never thought about us. . . “ She trailed off, then cleared her throat and forced herself to continue. “Having sex?”

 

Elliot choked on the large gulp of coffee he was trying to swallow. “What the hell is up with you? Can we _not_ do this?”

 

“So you have thought about it.” She gazed at the lumps of non-dairy creamer floating around the edges of her cup.

 

“Have you?” _Shit_. She knew him too well. Lie. Pandora’s Box. Lie. Pandora’s box.

 

“I didn’t used to.”

 

“But now you think we should. Have sex.” Elliot’s voice held a touch of amusement, yet beneath that was something dangerous, something she wasn’t sure she’d heard before, at least not directed at her.

 

“No!” She scratched her knee through her jeans, then looked back up at him. A second ago he’d looked angry or cornered. Now he looked. . . curious. Her face felt suddenly warm while the back of her neck felt instantly icy. “No,” she repeated, more softly this time. _Crap_. “I don’t know. I guess it’s just insulting to realize that in your eyes I’m . . . like Munch. When Carson made that comment, you responded as if you thought the idea was practically distasteful.” _Jesus Christ could you be more pathetic at the moment_? Her eyes zeroed in on the door of the warehouse, willing twelve perps with submachine guns to come busting out of there, rescuing her from this conversation that two minutes ago she’d been so convinced she wanted to have.

 

The door remained closed.

 

Elliot gazed out his window and said nothing. The radio tossed out occasional bursts of static, followed by instructions from dispatch.

 

Olivia listened to herself breathing, and felt a gust of wind shift the car ever so slightly. She was done, and apparently so was Elliot.

 

After another ten minutes, he abruptly said, his voice low and hesitant, “You’ve got the whole thing wrong.”

 

“Explain it to me then.” She turned to face him, not at all sure she wanted to hear any of this.

 

“I don’t _want_ to explain it to you.”

 

“Fine. Let’s drop it.” She swallowed the rest of her tea in one gulp and wished that the earth could swallow her with equal ease.

 

After another minute he said quietly, staring at his hands, “Don’t you have any subjects that you choose not to think about, because if you start thinking about them, you might not be able to stop?”

 

A wave of some emotion she couldn’t name washed over her. With a half smile she said, “Sure. Quite a few.”

 

“Well there you go,” he retorted, as if that explained everything. Which, in a way, it did.

 

________________

 

It took Cragen until 2 a.m. to give in and let them call the stakeout a bust.

 

On the drive to Olivia’s apartment building, Elliot was so tired that he rolled the windows down, even though the outdoor temperature had to be in the low teens. As they got closer, he slapped himself a couple times. Hard. Olivia opened her mouth to offer to take over driving, but closed it again when she realized that she was probably more tired than he was. Stoplights blurred when she looked at them, and her eyes were so dry that even jamming them shut didn’t alleviate the sensation that someone was rubbing sandpaper over the inside of her eyelids. So she shivered miserably in the passenger seat, listening to the wind rush by her open window and wondering if they’d set a record tonight for number of hours spent in the same car without speaking.

 

When Elliot pulled up in front of her apartment building, she finally decided that the standoff had lasted long enough.

 

“Go ahead and park. You can’t drive home like this. I’ll make you a cup of coffee and you can do fifty jumping jacks before you go.”

 

She fully expected something like, “No, thanks. I’m good.” Instead, after a long pause during which he seemed fascinated by the configuration of the steering wheel, he replied, “Okay. Coffee. But I’ll be fine.”

 

________________

 

Twenty minutes later, they stood with their backs to her kitchen counter, her hand curled around a mug of green tea and both of his clutching a large mug of black coffee – unnaturally tightly, it seemed to her. The inescapable awkwardness that had descended abruptly last Saturday night seemed to fortify itself by the minute in the silence of Olivia’s half-dark kitchen. She felt the way you feel when you wake up so tangled in a blanket that you almost panic before you can figure out how to extricate yourself, and by the time you do, your heart is beating at twice its normal speed and you’re breathing way too hard. She began to wish that she’d let Elliot take his chances and drive home without the benefit of her caffeine jolt.

 

Olivia pressed her back into the sharp edge of the counter, concentrating on the pain so that she’d stop concentrating on other things. Like the fact that the smell of Elliot’s cologne was suddenly oddly erotic, which was so dumb, because he’d worn that cologne for years. She rubbed her thumb against the warm blue ceramic of her mug and wondered if God was laughing at her.

 

Right now.

 

Because just when she most needed to govern her thoughts, keep them from heading in a catastrophically wrong direction, she found herself incapable of doing so. She didn’t know why Carson’s moronic comment had somehow tripped a circuit-breaker in her mind. She only knew that for years, thoughts of Elliot as a sexual being had been literally gated in her brain. If she started to watch the way his stomach muscles bunched when he got up from the workout bench, then SLAM. Gate. If she noticed the way it made her shiver when he leaned over in interrogation and spoke so softly that only she could hear him and his breath went all the way down her neck? SLAM. Gate. After awhile there were so many gates that she barely noticed them anymore, and it all worked out fine.

 

But now, between her exhaustion and the fact that he was maybe two feet away from her (closer than he’d been all week), and he smelled _so_ good, and she was seriously blanking on the last time she’d had sex, all the gates had magically vanished, leaving her defenseless against the onslaught of unwanted mental images. Like, how would it feel to put her lips on the pulse point of his neck? Would it be as incredible as she imagined if his fingers slid up the small of her back and over her shoulder blades? _God Olivia. Re-channel. Drink your tea._ But nothing helped.

 

The quiet between them was so overwhelming that she could hear Elliot swallow each time he took a sip. _Say something, goddamnit_.

 

And she was about to, but before she had the chance Elliot set his cup of coffee firmly on the counter. The ceramic clink repeated itself in her head as he spoke. “I’m gonna head home. Thanks for the coffee. I. . . “ He paused, as if he wanted to say something else, but all that came out was, “I’ll see you Monday.” He was almost to the door when she realized that he’d left his coat on the back of the couch. She picked it up and said automatically, “El. Take your coat.”

 

Then he turned around and looked at her, and she knew it was all over. Her last thought before she stepped toward him was that giving in was strangely liberating.

 

She took several strides in his direction, but instead of stopping where she should have and leaving the established yard or so of personal space, she dropped his coat on the floor, put her hands on his wrists so that it would take him longer to stop her if he planned to, and kissed him.

 

He tasted like coffee, and as she let her tongue move slowly over the outer edge of his bottom lip, she wondered hazily if she’d have to start drinking it again just so she could remember what this felt like. Because if she had known, all the gates in the world wouldn’t have done a damn thing to help her. He abruptly yanked his wrists out of her hands, and she thought for a second that he was going to stop her, but instead one of his hands landed on the back of her neck and the other slid beneath her shirt, touching the small of her back exactly where she’d felt it in her imagination only moments before. Only this was. . . well. Words eluded her.

 

She couldn’t stop kissing him. His hand moved up the nape of her neck until his fingers twined in her hair and he tilted her mouth so that it opened a touch more. He pressed her to him, hard, and made a humming noise in the back of his throat that she thought might compel her to throw him down right there. On the carpet. His tongue circled hers in a slow arc, and she found herself curious how a man who had probably had sex with one woman in his entire life had learned to kiss like that.

 

He let her go to breathe and then pulled her forward again, tasting her repeatedly as if she were his favorite dessert and he wanted seconds. And thirds. And well, so on. Her body relaxed into his as she pulled his shirt out of his jeans, sliding her cold hands underneath, up his back, to touch the warm skin she’d seen _so_ many times, but never with her fingers. He reacted immediately by holding her even harder, and she smiled inwardly at the absurdity of the thought that it was this easy to control him. Who knew?

 

She lost track of time as they stood there, kissing again and again and again, her lower lip caught between his, both of his hands now beneath her shirt, softly stroking her shoulder blades. Then one of her bra straps slipped down, and as quickly as the kiss had started, it was finished. Elliot pulled his hands from under her shirt in a split second and placed them instead on her shoulders, holding her firmly at arm’s length. Her lips were still damp with his saliva.

 

He stared at her, taking huge gulps of air, eyes wide and, from all she could tell, horrified. After a beat, he dropped his arms, bent to pick up his coat, and said, his voice rough and uneven, “See you Monday.” He turned toward the door.

 

“No. Stay. Right there.” Her voice sounded scary even to her, but she didn’t know what else to do.

 

“I can’t do this right now,” he said simply. “I don’t know what that was, but I sure as hell know I don’t wanna figure it out at whatever fucking time it is.”

 

“Elliot.”

 

He stopped, and she felt the smallest ray of hope because she knew that everything inside him told him to go, yet he still hadn’t walked out the door.

 

“What.” The word came out as a statement, not a question.

 

“You can’t leave. Even if you just. . . stand there. For fifteen minutes. You can’t leave. If you do, we won’t be able to work. At all. So just. . . stand there. Wait.” For what, she wasn’t sure. Her heart was beating so fast it made her feel sick to her stomach.

 

For maybe another minute (time wasn’t making a lot of sense to her at the moment), Elliot stood still, looking just past her eyes as if her right ear was suddenly infinitely intriguing. Then he dropped his coat on the back of the chair, walked swiftly to the couch, and sat down, leaning forward to grab the remote from the coffee table. He jammed the power button with his index finger, using way more force than necessary, and began to channel surf the moment the TV came to life. After scrolling through maybe twenty channels, he settled on some sports recap program and leaned back into the couch, his legs stretched in front of him until his feet disappeared under the coffee table.

 

Olivia rubbed the end of her fingernail and considered the fact that, for all the times she had longed for clairvoyance, so that she could understand the inner workings of some psycho’s mind, she had never in her life wished so violently that she could know what another person was thinking. A small grin played at the edges of her mouth, because even when he chose to compromise, Elliot had to do his own thing. She’d asked him to stand, so he sat down. After another ten minutes, she realized that he might sit on her couch all night watching idiotic sports shows, so she kicked off her shoes and walked over to join him.

 

As she took the three steps required to get there, she frantically scrolled through the arguments for sitting near or far away. The nausea was back full force, only this time with devil-possessed butterflies to accompany it. She wound up sitting about a foot away from him, hugging her arms and ready to screw a snake if only one of them would say something to shatter the uncomfortable atmosphere. No. Not uncomfortable. She didn’t know the word for how awful this felt.

 

But slowly, probably just because she was tired, she relaxed back into the couch, and decided that she’d started enough for one evening, so the next move was up to him. Still, she’d almost given up when he spoke after a full hour, startling her back into instant alertness.

 

“What made you do that?”

 

_You smell so good it makes me crazy. I’ve never kissed someone who knows me so well he can finish my sentences. I think I really really want to have sex with you._

 

“You wish I hadn’t.” She twisted the earring stud in her right ear. “I’m sorry. I know that we were. . . fine. And I’ve blown that all to shit.”

 

“Yeah you have,” he muttered, and she shut her eyes because maybe that would make this hurt less.

 

It didn’t work.

 

She hugged her arms to her chest, wishing that this could just be over, wishing that she could start back before the stakeout and keep her fucking mouth shut, wishing that he hadn’t worn that goddamn cologne just for today, wishing that she had the self-control of your average three year old. Wishing. . .

 

And then she felt his hand on her neck. “Liv. Look at me for a sec.”

 

She hadn’t heard him move, but he must have, because when he spoke, she could tell that his face was no more than six inches away from hers. Goosebumps rose on her arms and her thighs, and she almost laughed at the degree to which her body had stopped listening to her.

 

She opened her eyes.

 

He wasn’t six inches away from her. More like two. And he was smiling. Just a little, but it was there. His blue eyes were warm and sleepy and even though she knew the safe thing would be to look away – right now – she couldn’t do it.

 

“I don’t.” He trailed his thumb down the side of her neck. “Wish you hadn’t.”

 

“You don’t.” She wanted to say something else, but he began to move the pad of his thumb in a circle just under her ear, and the sentence that had been forming in her mind exploded like a bubble, leaving not so much as a fragment to help her form a new thought.

 

Then he leaned forward and touched his lips to the exact place where his thumb had been. She heard herself give an involuntary gasp, and he laughed against her ear before running his tongue over the lobe, back and forth in a hypnotic pattern. _Holy shit._ She thought she might be happy if he’d just do that until morning.

 

“Elliot, uh, we need. Um. Need to. . . “ He cut her off by touching his lips to her open mouth and pushing her backwards onto the couch. Without even thinking, she slid her legs slightly apart, and he ended up directly on top of her, still kissing her with an intensity that had her wondering if she might go insane, while simultaneously smoothing his hand over her ribs where her shirt had ridden up.

 

Then he wasn’t teasing anymore and his hands were on her face, his thumbs rubbing her temples while his tongue did indescribably amazing things to the inside of her mouth. Even through both pairs of jeans she could feel how hard he was, and her hands wandered to the back of his thighs, pulling him toward her. He rocked into her three or four times – hard – before he suddenly stilled and buried his head in her shoulder.

 

And started laughing.

 

But not in the funny sense. More like the harsh, desperate laugh that comes with the edge of hysteria. She pushed him off and sat up, unconsciously touching her lips, which tasted like him for the second time tonight. That fact alone was so bizarre that she felt as if she might be dreaming and maybe she’d wake up in a second and everything would magically return to normal.

 

But that didn’t happen, so she said sharply, “Well. That was a confidence booster.”

 

His face sobered instantly, and he rubbed his eyes, clearly exhausted. “You’ve got it wrong again.”

 

“How so?” she asked, humiliation rising up in her with such force that her chest ached. He didn’t say anything for a minute and she glanced at the TV screen, where now the early morning news was on, the excessively hair-sprayed meteorologist announcing a winter weather advisory. She blinked and forced herself to look back at Elliot.

 

“I just. . . “ He faltered, and when his cheeks reddened, Olivia thought she must be seeing things, because he couldn’t possibly be sitting there on her couch blushing. “I had no idea how much I wanted to do that.”

 

She said nothing, absorbing the enormity of what he’d just admitted.

 

He stood up and said very quietly, “Liv. I need to go now. I’ve got about a ten second window before I start peeling your clothes off, and. . . “ He swallowed. “And as much as I can’t believe what’s coming out of my mouth right now, we can’t. Not yet.”

 

 _Not yet_.

 

She stood up and clenched her fists as she rode out the wave of dizziness that momentarily enveloped her. When everything came back into focus, she nodded. The only thing she got out before her mouth became too dry to speak was, “Okay.”

 

His hand was already on the doorknob when she said, “El. Wait.”

 

His voice was laced with desperation. “I don’t wanna walk out in the middle of a conversation, but I have _got_ to get out of here. Now.”

 

“I know. Go. Just. . . promise me that on Monday, you won’t walk in and pretend that. . . “

 

He cut her off. “I won’t.”

 

His eyes held hers for no more than an instant, but she knew he was telling the truth. He quickly yanked the door open, so forcefully that she wondered if the hinges might twist, then slammed it behind him with a thwack that she felt through the floor. A second later Olivia noticed that his coat was still on the back of the chair, but even though she knew he’d freeze his ass, she didn’t go after him.

 

________________

 

Given that the sky had begun to lighten by the time Olivia had finally crawled into bed, it took her a second to realize that the monumentally irritating sound she kept trying to shut off by slapping the snooze button was actually her cell phone. _Shit_. Probably Cragen. She yanked up the quilt that had slipped to her knees and burrowed under it before answering the phone.

 

“Benson.”

 

“I can’t sleep. It’s your fault.” Last night’s events cascaded back into her consciousness, and even though she felt instantly ten degrees warmer, she still squished herself even further down into the covers.

 

“Wait. You’ve been in bed for. . . “ She peered at the clock on the nightstand. “Three hours, and you’re just. . . still awake?”

 

“Yeah. Still awake.” He fell silent, and as the seconds stretched out, Olivia unaccountably thought of all the silences they’d spent together over eight years. Different silences. Silences with names. Bored. Angry. Sad. Friendly. Harrowing.

 

And now this. She didn’t know the name for this one.

 

On the other end of the line, Elliot coughed and said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion, “Monday’s gonna suck.”

 

“I know. I’m. . . “ _But you’re not sorry. At all._ She twisted the hem of her pajama top around her finger. “We’ll figure something out.”

 

“Yeah. Okay. Good.” None of these words made him sound any more convicted. Olivia wanted him to appear in front of her so that she could smack him for pulling the classic Elliot move of calling, then leaving it to her to figure out what he wanted to say.

 

“Well if Monday’s gonna suck, you should probably get some sleep then, right?” She had no idea what to make of his monosyllabic quietness. But he’d called. Which meant. . . something.

 

“It’s too cold in here to sleep,” he muttered into the receiver.

 

“So come get your coat.”

 

She could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. “Really?”

 

It was that one word that clicked the entire situation into place for her. She _had_ had it all wrong. He’d probably expected to call that morning and find her cell phone disconnected. She leaned her head into the pillow and smiled, thinking that although he was right that Monday (and probably Tuesday, Wednesday, the entire week, possibly the next six months) would suck, this time it might be worth it.

 

“Liv?”

 

“Sorry. Yes. Really. I’ll make you coffee. Maybe even a bagel.” She waited for his reply, her fingers sinking deeply into the padding of her quilt.

 

“I’ll be there in ten.”


End file.
